A/N: First Sherlock fic. I'm looking forward to writing this one so I hope I'm doing it some justice. Tell me what you think?
Disclaimer obviously.
Well, I wrote this rather late... or early, depending :) and not to mention I don't have a beta reader so apologies for mistakes in advance.
Are We?
Chapter 1
In light of things, John should have realised that he was long overdue an upset- not anything common, like a miss placed tenner or a broken kettle, oh no; he was talking about the type of disarray that could only come from living with Sherlock Holmes. It had, after all been a slow week, not boring or dragged out, just slow, calm and peaceful as if the whole city had stepped down a gear and mutually agreed that John Watson needed a damn break; the surgery had been closed for a week and the criminal masses seemed to have momentarily reformed, well mostly- only once had the crime fighting duo found themselves on the trail of a vicious murderer, pelting it down London's back streets and weaving through the dark underbelly in a high speed chase... which as it had transpired hadn't really been that 'high speed' given that their suspect had no legs. Still, it was the calmest week John had had the pleasure of in a long time, and best of all? Best of all was that Sherlock wasn't moping, screeching, shooting or insulting anything, or for that matter anyone.
In fact he was the epitome of calm, just like the week itself he seemed to have spontaneously taken a chill pill, he happily came and went from the flat at frequent intervals, aiming a smile at his flat mate whenever they happened to pass, and even once making him a cup of tea- not a very nice cup of tea, but a cup of tea none the less. This itself would have sent alarm bells ringing in any normal persons head, but John (who was pretty sure he couldn't be classed as normal, and maybe not even completely stable in the mental compartment) dutifully ignored it all in favour of blissful ignorance.
And so when John woke on the sixth day of his peacefulness with a heavy weight in his stomach, he just knew the calm was all going to be torn from his clutch, tossed into a pile of crap and then promptly tossed at an industrial sized fan. Groaning in pre-emptive despair the doctor ran a hand down his lined face before pulling himself from the warm cocoon of his bed, relinquishing his safe haven and preparing himself for whatever may lay ahead. Pulling on a pair of bottoms, John tentatively made his way towards his door, pulling it open with slight hesitation and listening for signs of a sulking consulting detective, starting down the first few steps John was pleased to hear, or not hear that is, gun shots, ringing shouts of 'BORED' or the bangs and clangs and putrid smells of another wayward experiment... in fact it seemed almost too quite, too empty and somehow John suspected that he would not find his flat mate stretched out on the couch with three nicotine patches while he strolled his mind palace either. John doubted that Sherlock had even come back last night.
Sherlock?" John shouted into the silence anyway as he reached the living room, though to be honest he didn't know why he bothered, even if the man was in his room, it was unlikely he would reply. Shaking his head John pushed down the tiny niggle of worry and stepped into the kitchen, telling himself that he was thankful for his flatmates absence as he flicked the kettle on (after checking it for questionable substances of course, he always did after the body hair incident...) and convinced himself that he would have at least one more quiet day in
Have you done it? Of course you have, give it to me." Sherlock stalked into his brothers office, flouncing onto the hideous leather buttoned couch that cost far more than its worth, all the while shooting glares at the straight backed Mycroft. Throwing his hand out and snapping his fingers in an impatient gesture, Sherlock snapped "Come now Mycroft, I'm on a schedule. Some of us don't have the luxury of sitting around and eating endless amounts of chocolate confectionery"
Mycroft, who had barley batted an overworked eyelid at his younger brothers antics, allowed himself an eye roll at Sherlock's words (Honestly, as if his brother had every cared for a schedule). Opening the top draw of his desk he pulled out a Manila folder, the type that every government everywhere seemed to have an unhealthy obsession with and an endless supply of, and gracefully, in the way that only a Holmes could, flung it across his desk towards the younger man.
"Are you sure, brother dear, that it is a schedule that has you so wound up? Perhaps it is simply the irrepressible joy of the occasion?" Mycroft ridiculed with a knowing look towards the file, knowing his brother would rise to the bait.
Sherlock snorted as he unfolded himself from the couch and made for the file "I can assure you brother that it is merely for a case." Sherlock sneered as his glare increased "And I am not wound up" he huffed, and looked to all the world as if he was once step away from stamping his foot.
"Quite an extent to go to for 'merely a case'" Mycroft retorted, a simpering smirk working its way onto his face.
Sherlock huffed an angry breath, crossed his arms and as the personifications of petulance said "It's an important case." Even with his gaze averted Sherlock could tell that the smirk on his brothers face was growing. He could hear it. Bastard.
"Well, you'll find all the documents are in order." Mycroft finalised with a nod to the file, his hands coming to fold beneath his chin and his elbows on the desk. Sherlock nodded stiffly and turned to sweep from the room. "Oh, and Sherlock?" Sherlock came up short, his head inclining towards Mycroft, though he didn't quite face him. "I do so hope that Doctor Watson knows of your plan?" Sherlock didn't answer, storming from the room, the door slamming behind him.
John sipped the last of his tea, one hand absently brushing the leftover crumbs off his lap. The comforting sounds of Mrs Hudson pottering around in her flat below put him at ease. The morning was good; it was warm and bright, but with the window thrown open an alleviating breeze was blowing through and despite the still present niggling in the back of his mind, John managed to put himself at relative ease. Lowering his mug to the side table the doctor let his mind wander once more to his absent flat mate, surely he didn't have a case? No, he would have asked John along... Perhaps it was an experiment? Yes, that sounded right John thought with a nod, and it would certainly explain all his odd behaviour lately. Reaching out and grabbing the folded paper laid strewn across the foot rest John settled himself back into his plush chair, union jack cushion stuffed in his back as he shoved the detective once more from his mind because after all, what could Sherlock's plans have to do with him?
The day had progressed nicely in John's opinion; it was slow, lazy and he had managed to write up a whole blog update by lunchtime. The sun was peaked in the sky and John was once again lowering himself into his ever faithful chair, fresh brew clasped in his hands when the front door slammed, the sound was followed by quick footfalls as the visitor took the steps two at a time. Relinquishing his tea John gave it a sorrowful look as he placed it on the table and turned his head just as the absent detective swooped into the room. Looking him over, John noticed the beige file in his clutch.
"Been busy?" he asked in way of greeting, raising his gaze to meet Sherlock's. Sherlock, in answer simply nodded, stripping himself from his coat lithely. Why he insisted on wearing it in the height of summer John would never know, to be honest he was surprised the younger man didn't need to be surgically removed from the damned thing.
"Got a case?" he tried instead, wholly expecting a negative response, probably backed up by logical reasoning and creative insults as to why (probably by the state of his shoes and his index finger) that he obviously didn't have a case.
"Yes, actually. Rather an interesting one." Well not the answer he was expecting... John frowned; Sherlock never went a case alone any more, especially when John had a day off. (Not that it particularly bother the detective if John did happen to be working... or on a date)
"Oh, ok." there wasn't much else John could say.
Sherlock sank into a kitchen chair, laying the folder out before him. Taking the papers in hand he quickly shuffled through them, his gaze trailing up and down before nodding resoundingly, as if he'd found his answers, and perhaps he had John thought from his place in the sitting room where he was sat twisted in his chair watching his friend. Perhaps he'd already solved the case; perhaps it was so simple he hadn't even felt the need to include John in something so 'dull'. Giving himself one of those resounding nods, John turned and started back in on his cuppa.
"I'll be back shortly, need to follow up on some leads." or not, John thought with disdain as the consulting detective rose from his place, mobile in hand and flowed from the room.
"The case?" John asked pointlessly. Sherlock 'hmmmd' in a way that stated his profound observations of John's stupidity.
"Anything I can help with?" John prodded; he'd never had to push to be on a case before he thought briefly with scorn.
Sherlock turned to John. His retreat halted as he took in the doctor. It was silent for a beat before he declared "Not as of yet" and continued his exit, his eyes tearing from John's in a way that almost made him feel abandoned. Once again taking the steps two at a time, Sherlock reached the door and John heard as it was thrown open, however the conventional slam of a door closing never came, and for a moment John thought the man had forgotten until a shout came up the stairs.
Oh, and John?"
"Yes..." John asked hesitantly. Sherlock's tone of voice more that enough to set him on edge.
"We're married." and there was the slam. For a moment John could only sit in the silence of the flat, his mouth working a good impression of a fish before he thought dumbly,
'Are we?'